His Own Musings
by FlippinSirens
Summary: You're sat there, so perfectly calm and relaxed. It's irritating, stop it.


_**A/N: **__The Original Draft of this was just going to be John, First-Person Narration of a case and just his musings. But then it became whatever this is-turns out I like this a lot better. I was worried that I wasn't able to capture Sherlock properly, and I don't think I ever will because, um, hello, it's Sherlock and my writing is not that brilliant yet. And, it turned out to be more of a stream of consciousness than an actual plot or something along those lines. When writing this, I had no idea what was going on, or what was going to happen. I literally let my mind wander as if I were Sherlock and when I went back over it, I found that I didn't want to change a single thing because then everything would be have been messed up; the flow would have been ruined, not that I think there's much flow to begin with. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this because I certainly loved writing it~ (there's not even smut in this, like, what even)_

* * *

You're sat there, so perfectly calm and relaxed. It's irritating, stop it. But of course you don't stop because I do not voice my objection. I hardly ever do unless I'm in desperate need of a distraction. But, as of the moment, I'm fine just watching you.

I don't think even think you notice me staring at you, deducing everything about your day via your mouth, eyes, shoes, trousers, your jumper, and your downturned, apathetic lips. I can read everything about your day in how you're sat in your armchair while I'm sat at the couch, fingers steepled beneath my chin. If you have noticed, you don't say anything. Perhaps you're used to this odd behaviour of mine and you just don't care in the slightest anymore. Whatever the reason may be, it pleases me that you don't yell at me to stop because I don't think I'd be able to.

You see, John, you're fascinating even if by all rights you should be atrociously dull.

Frankly, you are dull a good deal of the time.

You talk about the most mundane things in all of existence and creation; you have a boring day job at the clinic, filled with sickly people, hypochondriacs, and _Sarah_, who is by far the dullest person you've fancied so far. You wear dull jumpers—though, the blue striped one you're wearing now is my favourite—and dull trousers. Your tea doesn't have an ounce of sugar in it, and neither does your coffee. The foods you eat are dull; the places you find entertaining are dull; the movies you like to watch and like to force me to watch are dull.

But watching them with you isn't dull at all.

And watching you sip your tea and having you make tea for me even when I don't ask for it isn't dull. It's sentimental and endearing and it needs to stop. But a part of me doesn't want it to stop.

When you force me out of the flat to go see a play or a movie or just to go out to grab a bite to eat—none of that is dull.

Maybe because it's you.

You make me rather confused, John, don't you see?

You are a man who can soothe a traumatized victim in less than ten minutes. You are a man who heals and helps people, every day. You are a man that flirts shamelessly with pretty women because you're looking for a nice shag. You are a man that rolls his eyes when he's annoyed or huffs out a breath. You are a man that is unnecessarily kind to people even when they deserve all your anger and hate.

Conversely, you're a man that can kill, that has killed. In Afghanistan and here, in London. You are a man that will jump in the line of fire to save me. You are a man who isn't afraid to yell at me and tell me that something I did is 'a bit not good.' You are a man who willingly spends his time with me even when he could be out with his friends at the pub or in between the thighs of a pretty woman. You are a man that chases criminals through the streets and alleys of London, following me, because you enjoy it. You are a man that willingly stays with me even though I've given you every right to leave.

Perhaps that is why I am confused.

You are so full of contradictions and it's irritating. Stop it.

But I'm aware, however, that if you were to stop it, you would not be the John Watson sat before me. I don't want a single thing to change about you, John, because even if one thing changes, you are no longer John Hamish Watson but rather a dull and meaningless vessel that holds the same name but not the same man.

I'm still staring and you're still unresponsive. That is, you are until you're breathing out a deep sigh, possibly to relax you, more likely because you're bored and are trying to relax, and you rise from your chair and head for the kitchen to make another batch of tea, which I don't protest. Tea would be lovely, thank you.

It's only a few minutes later when you come back in with two cups and extend one to me—you're really glad that we bought that new kettle, it heats so much faster than the old one—and I take it, my fingers brushing along yours for only a moment before I rest my cup on my raised knees. It's too hot to take a sip right now but you do it anyway, forcing your way past the scalding your tongue has just taken because you need the tea to sooth your tension away.

I could do that for you. Ease away the tension with a rather brilliant massage. Not that I've had much practice—the idea of touching people that I don't want to even speak to for more than one second repulses me.

But I could learn. I could research, I could practice, I could do it. For you.

You sigh happily, finally starting to relax and the urge I have to take you in my arms and just keep you there is astounding. It doesn't have to be sexual, in fact, I'd prefer it weren't. I'd just want you to be wrapped in my arms, for you to be comfortable enough with me that you wouldn't mind if I were to randomly hug you or for you to seek me when you're having a bad day. It's said that physical intimacy, even platonic touches, can soothe a person. It's carried over from our infant days when our mothers, fathers, or siblings would hold us when we cried.

I could be that for you, John. I could be a way to soothe away those stress headaches you get so often. I could be a way to soothe away those deep lines around your eyes from lack of sleep.

I take a sip of my tea and it's perfect, thank you. The liquid goes easily down my throat and its brief journey makes me warm all over. I take another sip, a longer one, and lean forward to place it on the coffee table once I'm done before I stand and make my way to my violin case.

The flat has been empty of late even though we've both been present. Maybe it's because it's been quiet. Sure, we've had conversations, but you've had a rough few days, especially with the most recent case, no doubt, and you always seek comfort in silence on these particular moods.

As I turn to you, plucking my violin, you're sat on your armchair now, feet tucked in underneath you—unusual position but not entirely uncharacteristic—in a style I believe most children would have, as well, nursing your tea. "What would you like to hear?"

Normally, I wouldn't ask this—your knowledge of classical pieces is rudimentary at best and you can hardly pronounce Tchaikovsky correctly—but you do know what your favourites are and I wouldn't want to play something you hated.

You blink. Surprised? I am, too. You swallow the bit of tea you had in your mouth when I asked you and then look up at me, a distance of only about three feet, to be honest, though you don't seem bothered by this. "Oh, um, I don't know. Surprise me, I'm sure anything you play will be fantastic."

"True, but that hardly matters." I position my violin properly and lay my bow gently across the strings and play a few chords, making sure it's tuned correctly. It is.

"Hmm, well, what about that piece you were working on a few days before the case? It sounded rather lovely and I'd like to hear what you've managed to come up with."

I…hadn't planned on finishing that piece, actually. In fact, I had almost completely forgotten about it. The climax just didn't work and it clashed too distinctly with the entire tone I was aiming for. I couldn't get the final chord to sound just right, either, which was rather bothersome, even with making a few adjustments here and there. To put it simply, it was just a disaster of a piece and I don't want to play it.

But, if you want me to, I will. For you, because you've had a rough few days and you need something to make all your worry and stress disappear.

Bearing that in mind, I only nod, keeping my eyes locked on you even as you turn away from my gaze and go back to nursing your tea. I sweep my bow slowly across the strings, the notes starting off softly and gradually getting louder before taking a swan dive back to piano.

Through the next crescendo, a few darker notes ring up, but only just below the surface. My fingers pluck and move across the top of the strings, vibrating the notes that need a little extra timbre.

I'm not consciously aware of my body swaying with the music, or that I've closed my eyes, but when I open them to look at you, you've set your tea down in your lap, your fingers holding it gently, and you're looking so intently at me, at my moving fingers, and my arm and wrist and finally, you hold my gaze.

It's hard to look away from your stare and a part of me doesn't want to but I'm afraid, John, that you're going to cause me to miss a few notes or mess up somehow because, at this point, I'm going off book from what I remember. You really must stop staring at me like that. I don't know what to make of this look. Me, the greatest detective in the world, the most brilliant man, can't figure out why you're looking at me like you are and it's irritating. Yet, I do realize that I don't want you to stop permanently. Just for now so that I don't make a fool of myself while playing for you. Not that you'd know if I messed up or not. No offense.

I don't know if you realize this, John, but I am, in fact, playing for you now. Whenever Mycroft is here whenever I don't want him to be—which all the time, you know at least this much—I cut my bow across the strings, beating the notes out harshly and without any finesse or semblance of music just to send him away. Mrs. Hudson, bless her old heart, loves to listen to me play, but I play things that she knows and I don't ever play her any of my original pieces. I may love her and England may fall without her, but it's still too intimate for the relationship I hold with her. I've never played in front of Lestrade save for round the holidays. No doubt you've been thinking about coercing me to play for everyone for Christmas this year again. I just might do. But only if you're there and not, mind you, with any of your petty girlfriends.

The piece is coming to a close and although it's been switching between maddeningly saddening, to an extent where you feel as if you could die, and brilliantly ecstatic, of which I've compared to chasing criminals through the alleys of London, I close it off with a flourish of enlightening, hopeful chords and patterns that lift your spirits to high places.

This, I think, is the combination of chasing criminals through the alleys of London, investigating a locked-room suicide/murder, and watching those horrid Bond films with you on a Friday night because there's nothing better to do and you just love them. The main component here, though, is that, no matter what I'm doing, you are there.

It's because I want you to be.

And that frightens me. I've never wanted anyone's company before, not like this. Oh, yes, I've yearned for human interaction before. Things get so boring inside my own head sometimes and it proves an effective, if not dull, method for catching my attention for a few hours at least if I can pick apart someone I've never met before. Though, most of the time, I end up with some sort of liquid in my face for being an insensitive prick.

But you. But this. This is entirely new. Because not only do I find your presence comforting, but it's come to the point where I believe I'm craving it, where I need it to function. You're worse than cocaine and heroin and meth and other stimulants put together.

And it's perfectly maddening.

Don't stop.

I take a deep breath as I let the last note fade into nothing and then I look away from your eyes and set my violin down on my habitual chair.

It's a while before you say anything.

"That was….Sherlock, I don't even have words for how wonderful that was. You composed that? It was bloody spectacular." You stand and take a step closer to me, but there's still a regrettably platonic distance between us yet, even if it is just two feet.

"Yes, well, I….I was hit with inspiration, I suppose." I know I'm brilliant. I know it was spectacular, I could feel it in my bones and in the way the music vibrated through my fingers and wrists and arms. It's still nice to hear you say it, though.

But it comes as a surprise to me when you ask, "So, who were thinking of when you wrote it?"

I can't help but blink. You caught that? I'm rather impressed but also shocked and I'm not sure I should tell you.

It takes me a moment of consideration.

I don't find a reason not to tell you.

"I was thinking of you. It seems that I do that quite often these days."

There's a twitch of a smile at the corner of your lips and though you may be amused, you're also flattered, and you haven't rejected the idea or said that it's a 'bit not good'.

Perfectly motionless, I simply wait for a response as there are a number of ways this could continue and I'd like to see which one works in my favour.

The twitch grows after a second or two into a full grin and it's brilliant. Really, tremendously brilliant. A part of me wants to keep you smiling forever. A part of me never wants that pressure and obligation.

I can't help but smile back and perhaps that was the impetus you needed because in the very next second you have your arms wrapped around my middle and your face buried in the crook of my neck, blowing out a deep, slow breath. It's startling but not unwelcomed as I wrap my arms around your shoulders and hold you to me, pressing my cheek onto the top of your head. You smell like you always do—that bland cologne with a hint of vanilla that's so subtle you'd have be this close to smell it—and I revel in it.

You huff out a chuckle, the sudden hot burst of air against my neck tickling a little.

"That's bloody brilliant, Sherlock," you say right after and tighten your hold on me.

I feel the faint press of your lips against my raging pulse. They're warm, soft, if not slightly chapped. It's stunning and perfect. The smile that blossoms on my lips hurts my cheeks but I have a feeling I'm going to get used to that quite quickly.

Don't ever stop.


End file.
